


saying, "this thing is killing me"

by death_of_romeo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, and like...between winter soldier and cacw, it's a rarepair, just let me live okay, set post-s13 rvb, wash/bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 19:39:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9340154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/death_of_romeo/pseuds/death_of_romeo
Summary: Wash could respect this: this obvious request for another fight, for a not-so swift death --- always on the look out for possible threats, the former Freelancer could respect this reckless behavior, this 'throw all caution to the wind' villain who has lived long enough to see himself become one rather than just die a good guy ( /like my friends/, he wants to think, but shoves the apathetic thought aside for the time being ).





	1. 1

  
_You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain_. That was what he was always told, what every comic and every movie he'd ever seen preached; heroism was a myth preached to the public in order to breed politeness and manners. Villains were those with flawed morals, and he'd seen himself become both sides of that coin ( one that wasn't even current currency anymore, what with the sudden surge of superheroes and their opposites that has painted his native planet red in these recent years ).

 

     Upon his return home, he was deemed a galactic hero. Those who lost their lives along his path to the top were only stepping stones, and their crown stuck heavy with thorns as he stood atop their mangled corpses, their senseless deaths. His name was plastered across every news outlet imaginable: _unlikely heroes save planet_ , they say, _survivors named intergalactic heroes_. It was only cheap talk, he thought, having experienced more pain than a human being should in his short, thirty-something year life, and having learned that the terms 'good' and 'bad' were only relative; he was no savior. _There were people dead_ , he thought, _good people_.

 

  
_You either die a hero_ , he thinks now, standing in the middle of a crowded street, watching as the world seemingly passed him by. People rush by, busying themselves with the local market, with low-level chit-chat as they mingle with friends and foes alike. The minutes felt like years flying past him, and he clings to the hope of this being true --- _please_ , he thinks, _make this fast._  


 

     Socializing was never a favorite past-time for him, having learned from a very early age that people caused anxiety, and anxiety caused panic, and panic was something he tried to avoid at all costs. Still, though, Carolina insists, the little voice in the back of his head: _go_ , she says, _at least be around people. Only for a little bit_ \--- she always insisted this, always asked about his latest outing each time she visited ( these visits having become more and more infrequent lately, and Wash is ever thankful for that ).

 

     It was the destruction on Chorus that did it. The message, transmitted and displayed seemingly across the galaxy, called for military assistance on the planet unknown to the general public, but it was too late for most of them. The good men and women native to the world --- the units of both the Federal and New Republic armies --- as well as the infamously-known red and blue soldiers of the former Project Freelancer, all mostly dead before any assistance could arrive. The remaining troops of the resistance put up one hell of a fight, but they were no match for the herds of ships and soldiers that the AI's message drove in; they came in groups by the dozens, searching for any survivors and tending to those who were just on the fringes of it.

 

     Agents Carolina and Washington, formerly of Project Freelancer, were among the survivors, as well as the planet's current-standing military leader, Vanessa Kimball. All others were tended to and helped where necessary, but these select three were immediately deemed heroes, the last strands of their team of multi-colored veterans who didn't make it out alive --- news of their requisition spreads fast across the galaxy, distant planets soon getting word of the death, war, and eventual saving of the small rock these people called home. Among these planets, Earth, who was suffering from a fight of their own.

 

     Many lives had been lost. Many men and women trusted with the world's firmest security and safety issues were revealed to have been corrupt, with motives lying in chaos and death rather than life and prosperity. The supposed saviors of the planet Chorus touched ground just months after this occurred --- just months after a brainwashed, dishonest soldier set out on a murderous rampage ( hunting down one Captain America --- Wash learned this later on, by researching what the world has done while he has been away ). The story sounds all too familiar --- a man, tormented and used by an immoral organization for the sole purpose of wreaking havoc upon his enemies: the mind brings up memories of Project Freelancer, of the Director's determination to destroy Charon and all its men.

 

  
_Or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain_ , he thinks, reminding himself that he must keep going; he cannot freeze here, in the middle of this busy street, this constant-buzzing sea of people. He takes a step forward, and then another, and soon enough, he finds himself at a foreign fruit stand. Eyes scan his current surroundings, and his gaze falls upon a seemingly familiar face. Mind makes connections, seams of familiarity tearing at the seams as he tries to place the face --- it surely wasn't anyone he knew since his return to his home planet; he only ever spoke to survivors from Chorus --- Carolina, Kimball --- and then, oh, a therapist, a psychiatrist...

 

     --- but no, none of those people were correct. This man was known from somewhere else; there wasn't any way that he was known by familiarity alone --- no, he never socialized with strangers long enough to have any familiar friends by that method. So where exactly did he know this man from?

 

     "Excuse me," he finally says --- pressures himself into muttering, just close enough for the supposed stranger to clearly hear; it was worth a shot, after all, to try to spark a conversation, maybe figure out a name or place the face along the way of general chatter. He makes no move to touch the other man, knowing from his own experience that being suddenly touched could startle someone beyond typical belief. The other man looks to him --- _oh thank God, he heard me_ \--- and Wash takes this cue to continue. "...you look familiar. I know you from somewhere, don't I?"

 

     The answer he receives is simple, spoken softly and nonchalantly: _depends on who you ask._  


 


	2. 2

     " _Depends on who you ask_." that was what he was told, and the simple response instills a sense of light annoyance within the former Freelancer; was it so obvious who this man was? Surely he knew it --- his brain, again, scans through possible suspects, slowly but surely going through all new faces he has come into contact with since his return home. One, by one, by one, by ---

 

     "Wait, I _do_ know you!" the words come out just a touch too loud, and he quickly moves in a bit closer to the stranger, smiling as he does so ( and oh, Carolina would just have a _field-day_ with this: _look_ , he can hear her saying now, _he **can** smile!_  ). This time, he makes sure to keep his voice down, tone soft and filled with a faux politeness as he continues. "...Barnes, right? James...something. From the news." news that wasn't exactly up-to-date, but news, nonetheless.

 

     " _Not me_." is the response he receives, but Wash refuses to believe it; no, this was definitely the man from the telecast: James...Buchanan Barnes, was it? Was that correct? He wasn't exactly sure, but according to the other man's current behavior, he supposed he was correct in his assumption.

 

     "I know it's you," Wash begins to say, deciding halfway through that allowing this man to hide from his mistakes wasn't fair; _I can't hide from mine_ , he thinks, and actively chooses then to somewhat confront this man, this stranger to him now ( but, hopefully, friend to later --- the two had many things in common, after all, and he wouldn't let someone be alone in misery if they didn't have to be ). "...I _know you_."

 

      " _A lot of people know me_ ," he's told. "... _there's a whole exhibit on me at the Smithsonian. Go read about me there_."

 

     So he _was_ correct. He considers this a victory, a tiny win scattered among his many, many losses --- this man has caused more destruction than most could ever dream of, and here he was now, hiding in plain sight. Wash could respect this: this obvious request for another fight, for a not-so swift death --- always on the look out for possible threats, the former Freelancer could respect this reckless behavior, this 'throw all caution to the wind' villain who has lived long enough to see himself become one rather than just die a good guy ( _like my friends_ , he wants to think, but shoves the apathetic thought aside for the time being ).

 

     "We have a lot in common," he finally says, hoping to create some sort of solid ground for the two to bond over ( or, at the very least, to steady himself upon this shaky social ground ). "...come on, I was used just like you. I have the scars to prove it." scars that he would refuse to show, if ever given the opportunity to do so. Still, though, he puts it out there, and the other man seems to at least feign some sort of interest in the topic at hand; _good_ , Wash thinks, _we're getting somewhere_ , but the silence grows and festers between the two.

 

     " --- come on, I _saved a planet_. The least you could do is say something back." he adds this, impatience stewing just beneath the surface, though not to the extremes the comment may suggest. The other man --- Barnes? --- gives him a look similar to his own ( one of annoyance, of perhaps, too, impatience ) before finally responding to his ever-talkative company.

 

     " _I know who you are_ ," he's told, an echo to his own words from just moments before. The similarities haunt him, though he shoves these ghosts away for now, smile having disappeared just as the statement escaped from the other man's lips; people knowing him was no surprise --- anyone who watched the news had heard of Agent Washington and the other survivors from Chorus --- but hearing it echoed by someone of such a reputation as the man standing before him...it felt strange, like a dream he couldn't quite remember upon waking. " --- _Agent Washington_."

 

     The sense of knowing --- the knowledge of each other's flaws, pasts, aliases and all --- it causes a smile to reappear upon the military veteran's features; so he knew, so the _world_ knew. Did it matter any? Both had histories, both had people who wanted them dead --- was there any point in fighting it? Searching these interactions out would only quicken their deaths, and doing so would only cause all of the entertainment and fun to end, so why not just enjoy the ride?

 

     "Just call me Wash," he replies, gaze meeting gaze as a bright smile is flashed in the other man's direction; _god_ , he thinks, _Kimball and Carolina would have too much to say about all this_ , but he decides to not think of any of that for now --- for now, he is only occupied with one thing, and one thing only.

 

     " _Then call me Bucky_."

 


End file.
